Jan Karon's Mitford Years

by Jan Karon

  Miss Pattie was a legend in her own time. She’d been known to take a bath with her hat on, plant violets in her shoes, and once crawled out a window to the roof of her front porch, “stark,” as Hessie Mayhew reported to one and all.

  “What’s Miss Pattie done now?”

  “She died.”

  He grabbed his change and nearly knocked over the display of Red Man chewing tobacco as he blew out the door. He jumped in the truck, scratched off without meaning to, turned right on Main Street, hung a left on Lilac, and shot up the hill to Hope House.

  Puny jiggled Timmy on one hip, and Tommy on the other. “Me an’ Joe Joe thinks Timmy looks like ’is granpaw.”

  “Certainly not!”

  “He does! Look at ’im. Little bald head, no offense. An’ look at ’is little nose. Ain’t it jis’ like yours?”

  He felt his own nose while he peered at Timmy’s. “Some resemblance.”

  “An’ Tommy, he looks like ’is Granmaw Esther.”

  That was a fact. Put a pair of glasses and a wig on Tommy, and he’d be elected in a heartbeat. Mitford still hadn’t gotten over losing Esther Cunningham as mayor.

  “I’ve brought everyone a little something!” He began unpacking the shopping bag. “For you, Puny, a dozen eggs, fresh from the nest!”

  “Great! Joe Joe eats two ever’ mornin’.”

  “For these fine boys, a couple of books ...”

  “What kind of books’re those?”

  “This one’s for Tommy, it’s the writings of Mr. George Herbert, and this is for Timmy—Mr. William Wordsworth!”

  “Are they any pictures in ’em?”

  “No pictures.”

  “Jis’ words?”

  “Well, of course, they aren’t to be enjoyed for several years yet. Sherlock Holmes said it’s a great thing to start life with a small number of really good books that are your very own; I’ve inscribed each one on the flyleaf. And here’s a couple of softballs ...”

  Puny looked mighty disappointed that her children’s granpaw was so out of it where presents were concerned.

  “Listen,” he said, shaking one of the softballs. Something chimed inside; Timmy reached for it at once but couldn’t grasp it; he batted it to the floor where it rolled under the sofa. The vicar dropped to his hands and knees, and searched it out.

  “Oh, law, don’t go pokin’ around under there, I ain’t dust-mopped in a month of Sundays.”

  “Not a problem!” he said, pulling himself up by a chair arm. “And of course, there’s something for Sissy and Sassy ...”

  “You ought t’ set down an’ catch y’r breath.”

  Indeed, he felt as if he’d been spinning in a whirlwind since early morning. “Can’t sit down; have to scurry. I know how the girls love books, here are the first four in the Boxcar Children series, I hope they don’t have them already.”

  She studied the covers. “They don’t! They’ll be so glad t’ git books from their granpaw; they read all you gave ’em f’r Christmas three or four times.”

  “Why don’t you and Joe Joe pack up the whole brood and come out for supper one Friday?”

  “When we go off from here, you never seen th’ like of what we have t’ haul—bottles, formula, diapers, sacks of this an’ that, a change of clothes, books for th’ girls, they read all th’ time, Sissy’s stuffed alligator ...”

  “Maybe in the fall, then—when they’re older. We miss you.”

  “We miss you back. I hope Cynthy has some help out there on th’ farm.”

  “My dear girl,” he said, “it’s taken three people to replace you.”

  “Maybe I’ll come back t’ work when th’ kids have left home.”

  “Yes, but by then, there won’t be anything left of us.”

  “Oh, phoo, you’re goin’ t’ live t’ be a hundred!”

  “Not at the rate I’m going,” he said.

  He dumped the grocery bags on the pine table and went straight to the library phone.

  “Betty? Father Tim. I have good news ...”

  “Thank th’ Lord!”

  “... and some bad news.”

  “Oh, no. Give me th’ bad first.”

  “Miss Pattie died.”

  “But I loved Miss Pattie!” wailed Betty. “I nursed her at home for a whole month one time, and she’s th’ only patient I ever had who was actually fun!”

  “Cynthia found her fun, as well. I hear she enjoyed taking a bath with her hat on.”

  “No, sir, that story is all wrong. She never wore a hat; but she did take a bath holdin’ an umbrella.”

  “Aha.”

  “Because the shower head dripped! I thought that made perfect good sense.”

  “Absolutely Now, the good news. Miss Rose has a room at Hope House.”

  “Hallelu ... oops, sorry. Since I know how she got it, I’d better watch my tongue.”

  “Good thinking,” he said.

  “Hey, Father, this is Connie at Hope House. Miss Louella sent for me this mornin’ an’ asked me to call you. She was in a strut; said you won’t listen to her, but you’d listen to me. Why she picked me, I have no clue! I suppose it’s because I work in the office, which always seems more, I don’t know, official.

  “Anyway, she wouldn’t tell me what it was about, but she wanted me to ask you ... where is that note, oh, here it is, you should see my desk, it’s like a bomb went off.... ‘What are you doin’ about you-know-who’s money?’

  “I said in case he don’t know who you-know-who is, maybe she should be more specific. But she wadn’t. Well, ’bye.”

  Beep.

  “Teds and Cynthia! You must be out milking the sheep! It’s your Yankee cousin, Katherine. Walter and I have done our darnedest to figure out when we might visit Meadowgate, but we’re stumped!

  “I’ve gone double duty at the nursing home; I love my dearlings, and then I’ve let the mayor’s henchwoman talk me into chairing the big event in August for children with AIDS. Will you forgive us? You know we’d love to see you—but imagine the weeks we’ll spend together in Ireland next year; you’ll be sick of us all too soon!

  “Which reminds me—Teds, what would you think of boarding with the lovely lady who made that luscious rhubarb tart? Or shall we go as the wind carries us? Loads to talk about!

  “For now—hugs and kisses! And God bless!”

  Beep.

  “Father? Andrew Gregory.

  “I’ve found someone to take on the job of restoring the Plymouth—for a very reasonable sum, it turns out! Thought I’d have the work done, and give the car to the town. We can use it in parades, and to add a touch of pomp to official mayoral activities. Long story short, I’m sending it down to Charleston in four or five days, the fellow has time to start the work now.

  “Any interest in taking a final look?

  “I’ll wait to hear back. All best to you and Cynthia; oh, yes, and to Dooley. I have word he’s become a Kavanagh. Congratulations to all.”

  Beep.

  In faraway New Jersey, Walter took a sip of his after-dinner espresso. “Forget it, Cousin.”

  “Forget it?”

  “Absolutely. Once a conviction has been obtained, the laws are very strict about overthrowing it. Further, there was never any evi- dence that pointed to Fred, and even if you pursued your hunch and something came of it, he’d be mentally incompetent to stand trial. No DA in his right mind would touch it.”

  He sighed. “I’ve always believed it’s never too late.”

  “You’re a priest, it’s your job to believe that.”

  “You’re a lawyer. I thought that was your job, as well.”

  Walter laughed. “Not this lawyer.”

  “You’re right, of course. Well, sorry to hear you won’t make it down this summer, but we understand; we have a house full, in any case. Dooley, his brother Sammy, and, temporarily, a five-year-old with the stamina of a freight train.”

  “Timothy, you are ever and a day taking in stray children. What a goo
d fellow!”

  “Can’t help myself.”

  “To wrap up, Cousin, leave the poor, demented soul to his own devices. Unless there’s something I don’t know, you don’t have the energy or years to chase a wild goose.”

  In truth, he was already chasing a wild goose, though of a far less serious nature—it was that blasted stack of hundred-dollar bills ostensibly buried in the deeps of a ’58 Plymouth Belvedere.

  “I c-could’ve c-c-cut y’r hair,” Sammy said as he wolfed his lasagna.

  “You could?”

  “Yeah.You n-need a little more t-took off of th’ sides.”

  Father Tim felt around up there; it seemed perfectly fine to him. “I do?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Dooley. “You do.”

  His wife was enjoying this way too much.

  He’d like to shave his head as slick as a cue ball, and be done with the whole miserable business.

  “That was a tough rack.”

  “Pretty hot shooter.”

  “She’s th’ champion sh-shooter in th’ whole United S-states. Look how many b-b-balls she made on that break.”

  “Man,” said Dooley. “Could you do that?”

  He stood at the upstairs linen cupboard, lis- tening to the voices down the hall.

  “I don’ know. P-prob’ly not.”

  Sure you could, he thought. Sure you could!

  Dooley had begun his summer internship at Hal’s clinic, and Sammy was working, shirtless, in the garden. On the hottest, most humid day they’d had so far, he took Sissie for a lengthy and circuitous trek—out to the chicken house, down to the pond, up to the hay loft, and around by the cow pasture.

  He’d been instructed to exhaust as much of her energy as possible, to prevent a repeat of last night’s session. Unable to sleep, Sissie had climbed into their bed and talked a mile a minute until ten o’clock.

  “It’s sugar,” Cynthia had announced at breakfast. “We can’t give her anything sweet today. Fruit only.”

  “Raisins!” he said, being helpful. “Apples!”

  “Silly me to show her where the cookie jar was. I’ve put it on top of the cabinet.”

  “Better hide the step stool,” he cautioned.

  After Lily’s lunch, which utilized a considerable amount of Sammy’s lettuce and peas, he announced nap time. Surely after a late bedtime and early rising, their young charge would sleep like a log ...

  As Sissie curled beneath an afghan on the library sofa, he scribbled in his quote journal.

  If the trials of many years were gathered into one, he penned from an old book found on Marge’s shelf, they would overwhelm us; therefore, in pity to our little strength, He sends first one, and then an- other, then removes both, and lays on a third, heavier, perhaps, than either; but all is so wisely measured to our strength that the bruised reed is never broken. We do not enough look at our trials in this continuous and successive view. Each one is sent to teach us something, and altogether they have a lesson which is beyond the power of any to teach alone. H. E. Manning.

  He reread what he’d written. Wisely mea- sured to our strength ... amen and amen, Brother Manning, whoever you were ...

  His eyelids were drooping. He propped his head in his hands for a moment, then moved to the wing chair and thumped into it. A light breeze stirred through the open window. Bliss.

  Sissie popped up from the pillow, looking urgent.

  “How does Jesus git in us?”

  “We ask Him in. When we do that, He comes and lives in our hearts.”

  She put her hand over her heart, furrowed her brow, and listened intently.

  “What does ’e do in there all day?”

  He heard the front screen door slap, and Dooley’s footsteps along the hall to the library.

  “Hey,” said Dooley, going to the bookcase.

  “Hey, yourself.”

  Dooley shook his head, disbelieving. “Unbelievable!”

  “Blake?”

  “You got it.”

  “Now what?”

  “Bo’s been having trouble with her neck; I noticed she can’t bend it. Plus she hasn’t been eating much, or moving around a lot.”

  “I thought it was probably the heat.”

  “No. She’s in pain; I can feel the muscle spasms in her neck. And she’s starting to drag her right hind foot. I’m sure she has a ruptured disk.” Dooley located a book, took it down, and paged through it.

  “What needs to be done?”

  “Blake wants to call in a vet who does back and neck surgeries. Nobody around here does that anymore, we’d have to take her to Johnson City.”

  “Do you agree with Blake’s idea?”

  “No way. There’s only a sixty-percent chance that surgery will work, and if it doesn’t, she could need repeated surgeries.”

  “What are the options?”

  “I think we should try acupuncture.”

  “Acupuncture? Isn’t that kind of... out there?”

  “Lots of vets are using acupuncture to manage pain. Along with that, we need to give her time; sometimes these things take care of themselves. Then, if that doesn’t work, opiate drugs and steroids. Surgery would be a last resort.”

  In Hal’s absence, Blake was definitely the boss. “Has Blake made up his mind?”

  “He’s going to call Hal and see what Hal says. But Hal will side with Blake.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “They think alike.”

  Dooley turned to Father Tim, looking fierce. “Blake is an arrogant, self-serving pain in the butt.”

  And you have to work with him all summer, thought Father Tim. Lord, thanks in advance for wisely measuring this to his strength.

  With Sissie in tow, he made a run to visit Dovey, wheeling first into Lew Boyd’s.

  “Miss Sadie’s car is going down to Charleston to be restored,” he told Harley. “Could we comb over it again tomorrow?”

  “What time would that be?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Aroun’ four I could do it. I got a awful job of work on Miz Mallory’s Lincoln. Ed Coffey’s bringin’ it in at ten o’clock. They ain’t kep’ ’at car up like they should.”

  “I’ll be here at four.” Ed Coffey. Maybe he could learn Edith’s latest prognosis.

  “By the way, Harley ...”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “If Cynthia and I had to raise another boy, could I count on you to help us out?”

  Harley’s toothless grin was wrapping around to the back of his head. “You c’n count on me f’r anything, Rev’ren’.”

  Frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to raise another boy; he didn’t know if he could summon the strength. Even his indefatigable wife, though willing, had seemed daunted by the prospect. But what else was there to do?

  At the sight of her mother, Sissie burst into tears and climbed onto the hospital bed, bawling. “When are we goin’ home, Mama?”

  “Soon, honey. Soon. Please don’ cry.” She smoothed the hair from Sissie’s forehead. “Looky yonder, Donny brought m’ plate an’ cup an’ all. Ain‘t’ that nice? They won’t let me use it, but I c’n look at it when I pray f’r Mamaw Ruby.”

  Father Tim took Dovey’s hand. “Feeling stronger?”

  “Maybe a little bit. I got up an’ walked around th’ room this mornin’.”

  Nurse Herman squished into One Fourteen on her lug-sole shoes.

  “Mrs. Gleason, may I borrow your pitcher a minute?”

  “Yes, ma’am, but please pick it up easy; th’ handle’s been broke off.”

  “Two times,” said Sissie, “but hit was pasted back.”

  Nurse Herman drew Father Tim into the hall, closed the door behind her, and held forth the pitcher.

  “Here’s your culprit,” she said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Bingo

  He stopped by Dora Pugh’s for a mask, picking up an extra for Harley. The last time he rooted around in the Plymouth, the dust caused his sinuses to drain like sp
igots.

  “Operatin’ on somebody?” asked Dora.

  “Operating on a car, actually.”

  “Takin’ out th’ drive shaft, I reckon.”

  Their hardware store owner was never at a loss for words.

  “If we have to,” he said, counting the correct change.

  “Have you heard th’ one about ...”

  “Next time!” He struck out for the door with his brown bag.

  “... th’ fella who fell in a lens-grindin’ machine an’ made a spectacle of hisself?”

  No rest for the wicked, he thought, charging up Main Street to the truck.

  He saw a small gathering in front of Sweet Stuff. A good reminder! Cynthia had been craving Winnie’s fig bars, which were, all things considered, relatively low cal. His wife would demolish a couple in no time flat.

  He crossed Wisteria Lane, noting that the crowd appeared to be gathered around ...

  His heart hammered.

  ... around Edith Mallory ...

  ... in her wheelchair.

  As he approached, the Collar Button man was bending toward Edith, as if to hear what she was saying.

  “Right, right.” Appearing uncomfortable, he fled next door to his own shop.

  Mitford’s fire chief, Hamp Floyd, exited Sweet Stuff with a cake box, the bell jingling above the door.

  “Miz Mallory! I declare!” Last September, Hamp Floyd had pulled out all the stops to save Edith’s mansion on the ridge, but it had burned to the ground in spite of his effort.

  Hamp leaned closer to Edith. “He is, ma’am, He certainly is!”

  Winnie Ivey peered through the glass door of her shop to see what was going on, then came out to greet the woman who had tried without success to buy Sweet Stuff for a third of its value.

  “Miz Mall’ry! Glad to see you on th’ street again!”

  Winnie extended her hand, and Edith took it. Father Tim was standing behind Edith and couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it made Winnie smile. “Yes, ma’am,” said Winnie. “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  Ed Coffey stood patiently at the handlebars of the chair, gazing around the small gathering. He caught Father Tim’s eye.